Perfectly Normal, Thank You Very Much
by samslostshoe
Summary: Dean likes Cas, Cas likes Dean, and Charlie is stuck in the middle. When she and Cas become project partners for Ms. Harvelle's eleventh grade English class, it only makes things worse. Between being emissary and trying to deal with her own life, Charlie gets fed up and decides to take matters into her own hands. After all, just like Hermione, she is not an owl.


**Written for this prompt:**

**_Dean has a crush on Cas, Cas has a crush on Dean; Charlie knows this, but the boys don't. When she's paired up with Cas for a school protect, Dean pesters her for information on the raven haired boy (Cas asks questions about Dean all the time too, though he's a little more subtle). Eventually she gets annoyed and locks them together in a classroom so that they can figure their shit out without her being in the middle._**  
**_I'd love it if Benny was in the fic too, maybe as Dean's project partner, but you don't have to put him in._**

**I had a lot of fun with this fic. I love writing for Charlie. Thanks as ever to my beta Maizie; no idea what I'd do without her.**

_Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't..._  
Charlie was deeply engrossed when her book was jerked rudely from her grasp. "Hey!" she snapped, looking up, "I was in the middle of a sentence!"  
"Yeah, right, like you don't have it memorized anyway," Dean said, rifling through the aged paperback. "You've read it, what, a hundred times?"  
"Eleven," Charlie corrected, snatching Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone back from her best friend.  
"Yeah, and does that mean you _don't_ have it memorized? Come on, finish the sentence!" Dean said, tugging teasingly at her ponytail as they fell into step next to each other.  
Charlie rolled her eyes in exasperation: a vain attempt to hide her smile. He knew that she wouldn't be able to resist. "Because they just didn't hold with such nonsense," she quoted dutifully, punching him in the arm for good measure. "Douchebag."  
Charlie had met Dean Winchester when they were paired together for an English project the first week of freshman year. He was tall but well-built, with sandy, gelled-up hair that she always teased him about, bright green eyes, and a splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was a voracious, insatiable flirt, and his appetite for both genders was an asset in that regard. Their first interaction, filled with adolescent bonding over Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, and a profusion of other, equally nerdy interests, had ended with Dean asking Charlie out.  
"You're not really my type," she had answered, biting her lip.  
"Come on," Dean wheedled, giving her what she would come to regard as his sealing-the-deal smile.  
"As in," Charlie sighed, "You're not a girl."  
"Oh!" Dean's mouth formed a very comical surprised shape that had quickly morphed into a much more genuine smile. "Guess you'll just have to be my wingman, then."  
And Charlie had agreed.

"So," Dean asked as they took their seats in Ms. Harvelle's Junior English, "you excited for the project?" He wiggled his eyebrows.  
She rolled her eyes. "For the acting? No. But I'm glad we get to block our own performances. I've always fancied myself a _brilliant _director," she joked, flipping her hair over her shoulder dramatically.  
"Hey! No weave flips!" Dean objected. "You know how much I hate weave flips."  
"All the better to torture you with, my dear," Charlie cackled in her best Wicked Witch of the West impression.  
"Alright, kids, listen up," Ellen Harvelle said, striding into the room with an armful of photocopied pages. She placed them on the desk in the corner of the front row, expecting, as she always did, that her students pick up on her unspoken command to _take one, pass it on_. "Today y'all are starting your Romeo and Juliet performance project. You'll be performing a short segment from the play, which I've chosen for you, with a partner," Dean scooched instinctively towards Charlie, "which I've also chosen for you." Dean groaned and un-scooched. "Problem, Winchester?" Ms. Harvelle asked, in her usual hears-all-sees-all fashion.  
"No, Ell—Mrs. Harvelle," Dean responded with a mock-polite face. "No problem at all, ma'am." And Charlie couldn't be sure, but she thought she caught Ms. Harvelle wink at him. She'd known him since he was three. Her husband, Bobby Singer, taught Auto Shop and Metal Working, and had been friends with John Winchester since the dawn of time, or so it seemed to Charlie.  
Ms. Harvelle began rattling off names, in backwards alphabetical order, as was her wont, along with assignments. Charlie zoned out, her attention only drawn back to her teacher when Ms. Harvelle announced, "Dean Winchester with Benny Lafitte, act two, scene four, lines sixty-one through a hundred." She looked over at Dean as he huffed a sigh of relief, leaning forward in his seat to bro-fist their friend Benny. She was pretty sure she was safe for a little while, her surname being Bradbury, and so she allowed her attention to drift back to Gilda Fay, the current object of her affections. Gilda was beautiful, with mocha-colored skin, golden hair, big brown eyes, and high, beautiful cheekbones. Charlie was in the middle of composing a mental ode to her eyelashes when Ms. Harvelle's severe voice broke through her absorption, "Castiel Engels and Charlie Bradbury, act one, scene five, lines ninety-one through a hundred 'n eight."  
Charlie sighed very quietly to herself, her gaze shifting to Dean again. She could see the cogs in his head turning, his expression blank, and mentally counted down: 3, 2, 1...  
Dean turned his head to her slowly, face splitting into an ecstatic grin. Charlie rolled her eyes and risked a glimpse at Castiel, who was smiling warmly at her.  
Cas was insanely smart, so much so that he had to take his math and science classes at the local community college. He was the son of a semi-famous horror writer, Chuck Shurely, aka Carver Edlund, author of the Supernatural series. Charlie had met him once at an award ceremony for academic merit in which Cas was awarded two medals to adorn his future graduation gown, and she'd been surprised that such a great series had been produced by such a scruffy, anxious little man. She assumed that Cas had gotten his ridiculous good looks from his late mother, from whom he'd also received his last name.  
_Odin, give me strength,_ she thought wearily, looking back and forth between Cas and Dean, _I'm going to need it if I'm dealing with a lovesick idiot of a best friend_. It was going to be like Harry and Ron in Half-Blood Prince.  
When Ms. Harvelle finished her spiel, she commanded, "Alright, kiddos, pair up and get to work." Dean flashed a quick, hopeful grin at Charlie as he rose from his desk and moved a row forward to be with Benny.  
"Wingman, remember?" he muttered.  
"For serious?" Charlie asked, rolling her eyes. "Like, during a school project?"  
"When're you gonna learn, Charlie?" he chuckled. "Always."  
"Nympho," she grumbled as Cas deposited himself gracefully into Dean's vacated seat.  
"Hello, Charlie," he said in his grave, gravelly voice, offering the slightest hint of a smile along with his hand. Charlie shook it awkwardly, giggling nervously and automatically smoothing down her hair. She hated talking to people she didn't know. Being a girl who spent most of her time in front of a computer, her people skills had been cruelly neglected.  
"Hey bro," she said, half-jokingly.  
"So, shall we get to work?" His big blue eyes were severe and tender at the same time, almost questioning. Frack, they were pretty. She could see why Dean had his eyes on this kid.  
Charlie nodded.  
"We've been given, for the most part, a sonnet," Cas explained, pulling out his copy of Romeo and Juliet. It will involve some, ah, osculation—,"  
"Excuse you, some what?"  
Cas blushed, and the tips of his ears turned pink where they were sticking out of his dark, messy hair. "Some kissing." He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
Charlie made a face. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly what I look for in a soulmate."  
"Nor you what I look for," Cas responded, "but I think we can manage it, do you not?" He smiled congenially, and Charlie beamed back. She liked this dude.  
"Now," Cas began, turning back to the script and picking up a pencil on Dean's desk. He leaned forward in his seat and tapping Dean's shoulder, asking, "Dean, can I borrow this?"  
"Sure," Dean acquiesced, giving him a smile dripping with implications of salacious intent, "whatever you want, Cas."  
Cas blinked sort of rapidly and blushed a little, but Charlie thought she was the only one who noticed.  
"Now," Cas repeated, attention once again focused on the 400-year old text in front of him, "we'll need to first understand what Shakespeare is going on about in order to properly perform it. Do you agree?"  
"Sure," Charlie joked, "whatever you want, Cas."  
She heard Dean muffle his laughter.

"Walking on sunshine, woah, 'm walking on sunshine, woah, and don't it feel good!" Charlie belted, head bobbing in rhythm to the music streaming from her headphones. She loved them; they were silver and noise-cancelling and had great sound and, best of all, they were virtually unbreakable. That was a necessity, as Charlie tended to break whatever was in her hand whenever she fell or hit herself or was tripped by the mess on her floor, which was often.  
She was halfway through the second verse, eyes fixed on the computer, when her headphones were removed from her ears by a pair of hands that weren't her own.  
"Earth to Charlie. Come in, Charlie." Dean said in a mock-astronautical voice. "Charlie, do you copy?"  
Charlie made a static noise and placed her hand in front of her mouth. "Roger roger," she said, speaking into her fake walkie-talkie. "I copy. Over." Dean laughed and threw himself on her bed. "Y'know," she said, spinning around in her wheely desk chair to face him. "There's this really wonderful social custom that the kids are calling 'knocking.' Maybe you should try it sometime."  
Dean stretched out on her bed, placing his hands relaxedly behind his head and kicking his shoes off. "I like to think I'm above such things," he drawled contentedly, closing his eyes. "What're you doing?"  
Charlie turned back to her laptop, meeting Arwen's eyes on her desktop. "Working on The Red Scare, what else?"  
The Red Scare was a video game that Charlie had been programming off and on since she was twelve. It was a WWII era first-person shooter where the only objective was to kill zombie-vampires and save the patients they were going to eat. Despite the lacking plot and monotonous gameplay, she'd designed nearly thirty distinct levels. So far, Dean was her only beta tester.  
Dean was quiet for a few minutes, and Charlie returned to her coding. After a bit, Dean's voice broke through her concentration once again. "So, you liking the project?"  
"Yeah," she said absently, hoping her monosyllabism would serve to avoid the imminent conversation.  
"You think you and Cas are gonna pull it off?"  
"Yep, no probs," she said, cringing internally, "we've got it in the bag."  
"Well," Dean said casually, swinging his long bowlegs off her bed, "probably helps that you have the smartest guy in class as your partner." He moved to stand behind her chair. "And the hottest." He lowered his head so it was resting on her shoulder. "Mind putting in a good word?"  
"Deannnnn," she groaned.  
"Charrrrrlie," he responded, pouting. "Come on, I'll be your best friend." He kissed her on the cheek.  
Charlie swatted him away. "You are my best friend. Or have I been in a very realistic MMORPG for the past few years?"  
"Charlie, come on, I really like this guy," Dean said, features losing all hints of jest.  
"Oh, got it," Charlie said, assuming the same countenance. "Serious face now."  
"Charlie Bradbury, if you put in a good word for me with Cas, see if maybe he's interested, I solemnly swear to love you forever."  
"And?" Charlie prompted.  
"And do your history homework for a week."  
"And?"  
"And...I'll read the first Harry Potter book."  
"Yes!" Charlie punched the air in victory. She'd been trying to convince him to start the series for months, ever since she discovered that the only exposure he'd had to them was through his little brother, Sam. Sam was a cute kid, short and silent, just going into eighth grade. Charlie liked the little squirt.  
"I'd love to do it," she said, pinching Dean's cheek. He grinned, reaching out an arm to grab a figurine sitting on her dresser, right next to her favorite: Hermione Granger, circa Order of the Phoenix.  
"Hey Charlie," he quipped, holding up a cartoonish Darth Vader with its stubby little arms extended, and reading the inscription on its pedestal aloud, "'I love you _SITH_ much.'"

"Ay, lips that...that...oh blerk, line?" Charlie threw up her hands in frustration and defeat.  
Cas smiled indulgently, eyes flicking from her to the page. "That they must use..." he propted patiently.  
"In prayer! Ay, lips that they must use in prayer," Charlie yelped excitedly, punching the air in victory. Cas had already begun the next line when Charlie's iPhone buzzed in her pocket. She motioned for Cas to stop talking, and he obliged. "Yo, Deano."  
Dean's voice buzzed in over the speakers, tinny and far away. "Hey there. How's it going, Yente?"  
"I may have been neglecting those duties," Charlie said carefully, trying to keep Castiel from gleaning the gist of their conversation.  
"Your matchmaking duties?"  
"Yes those. Sorry."  
"Hop to, private!"  
"Yessir!" Charlie responded, snapping a salute before hanging up, only then realizing that Dean wouldn't have been able to see it.  
Cas was smiling. When he noticed Charlie noticing, he grinned and flopped backwards onto his immaculately-made bed, placing his paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet open on his chest. "I think that's enough Shakespeare for today," he pronounced.  
Charlie stretched in his oak desk chair, closing her eyes. She replied, "I ain't complaining."  
Cas, perfectionist and overachiever that he was, had insisted that Charlie come over to his house to work on their lines. The house was modest and well lived-in, all the walls painted a shade that Cas called "angel's wings." They had it all to themselves, he and his siblings, if you didn't count Mr. Shurley, which Cas suggested she not, as he was holed up in his study writing; Cas asserted that it involved more whiskey-drinking than actual manuscripting. Cas' two older siblings were off at college, Michael on a pre-law track, and Gabriel starting his first year at a college of the arts. Cas' two younger siblings were also occupied, Anna with a sleepover with her other freshie friends, and Sam (full name Samandriel; Charlie figured that their writer parents had possessed a penchant for odd names) was doing some pee-wee soccer something or other. They'd spent the afternoon intensely focused on the Bard's words, and Charlie was glad to finally give her brain a break.  
Castiel's voice probed her restful silence. "That was Dean Winchester?"  
"Yep," Charlie affirmed, not opening her eyes.  
"You two seem very...close," Cas said carefully.  
"Best friend I ever had."  
"And...how long have you two been together?" Cas asked, voice still cautious.  
Charlie snorted. "Like I would date that idiot. Nope, he doesn't have the right parts for me, Cas, if you catch my drift."  
"Ah," Cas said delicately, "I see. I suspected, but was never sure."  
Charlie opened her eyes. Cas was now sitting on the end of the bed, ankles crossed, eyes focused on his white-socked feet. She leaned in. _Let the games...begin!_  
"How about you?" she asked.  
"Hmm?" he murmured, eyes flicking up.  
"What do you think of our Mr. Winchester?"  
"I don't feel as though I'm able to form an opinion," Cas said, his gaze returning fixedly to his socks. "We don't know one another very well."  
But Charlie could see him smiling.

Charlie's view of her poster-plastered locker was suddenly obscured by a pair of calloused hands covering her eyes. "Guess who?" Dean's voice sang from behind her.  
She bit her lip, pretending to think deeply. "Princess Eowyn?" she asked finally.  
Dean chuckled and removed the fleshy blindfold. "You wish."  
She turned to him. "Do I ever," she sighed, wistfully twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.  
"So," he asked, suddenly becoming bashful, "how'd it go?"  
"You mean talking to Cas?" she asked. "Well, I'll give you one thing, he's pretty dreamy."  
"And?"  
"And I think he likes you, Deano."  
Dean's answering smile is huge and delighted. "And?" he asked.  
"And I've got a plan."  
"Shoot, Freddy."  
"Okay," Charlie started, "We're gonna hang out today after school to start blocking the scene. I was thinking you could pop in around four thirty and join? And it'd be really casual?"  
Dean nods. "Sound like a plan." Dean began to walk away, before spinning on his heel and adding, "Charlie, you're a genius."  
"I know," she retorted. "It's a problem."  
As he turned once again to walk down the hall, Charlie spotted Gilda walking in the other direction; towards her. "Hello," she greeted when she reached Charlie.  
"Hey," Charlie grinned, extending the y sound in an attempt to sound casual. She ran her hands through her hair nervously, tucking the long red strands behind her ear. "How's it going?"_ Frack, she's pretty._  
"It's going well well. And yourself?" Charlie heard Gilda's lovely voice form the words, but she was too focused on the shape of her mouth while she said them: her tongue flicking up on the L, the gentle curve around the O and U, the way the tips of her lips curved upward after the last syllable.  
Charlie suddenly realized that Gilda probably expected an answer, and was, in fact, regarding Charlie's awed silence with confusion. "Oh, yeah, things're good. Really good."  
Gilda smiled at her warmly. "Well, that is good. It is...good to be good," she tittered at her statement, her bell-like laugh breaking through the picturesque barrier of her lips.  
When Charlie failed to further their conversation, Gilda politely excused herself and made to continue past Charlie down the hall. Charlie felt her opportunity waning quickly, and a sense of desperation overtook her. _Luke, _she thought to herself, _you are the chosen one. _Though it made no sense, it gave her a strange, insane rush of courage.  
"Hey," she called, "Gilda!" As Gilda turned, Charlie strode down the hall to close the distance between them. She grabbed Gilda's hand, holding it palm-up. Gilda did not protest, and Charlie liked that. Whipping a Sharpie out of her back pocket, she scrawled ten digits on her open palm. She blew on the number to dry it. Gilda's hand suddenly folded around Charlie's own, pulling, and thereby moving Charlie towards her. She moved a hand to Charlie's waist and one to the back of her neck. She twined her fingers in the soft, fine hair at the base of Charlie's skull, and when their lips met, Charlie felt sparks in her belly. _Swoon, _she thought.  
A few minutes later, when Gilda had finally pulled away after many failed attempts, and Charlie was once again gazing at her retreating back, Charlie suddenly remembered what she was going to say before the kiss.  
"Call me," she shouted, "maybe?"

"And hand to hand is holy palmers' kiss," Charlie said, pressing her hand against Cas'. Cas was halfway through his next line when she interrupted him for the fourth time that afternoon. "No, no, no, it feels weird. It doesn't feel natural. God, if I'd known being a director was gonna be this hard..." she joked, stepping back.  
"I'd think," Cas replied sympathetically, "that it might be easier if you weren't trying to direct yourself."  
At that very moment, Dean came striding into the room. He was accustomed to letting himself in, and that, compounded with the fact that he had very little respect for the privacy of others, made for an often unannounced visit.  
"Hey," he said, and then employed his mediocre acting skills in putting on a show of surprise to see Cas. "Cas! Hey, what are you doing here?"  
"Charlie and I are rehearsing," Cas said, ducking his head. Charlie could only tell that he was blushing from the slight tinge of pink on the tips of his ears.  
"And you're just in time!" Charlie exclaimed, struck by sudden inspiration. She grabbed Dean by his elbow, dragging him to stand in her vacated position across from Castiel. "You can be my stand-in! I need to look at the scene objectively, which is extremely hard when I'm in it."  
Dean turned to her with a semi-panicked look on his face. "But I don't know the lines!"  
"No problem," Charlie said, whipping her rolled-up book out of her back pocket and handing it to him, "I've got you covered." She backed up a few steps and sat down on her bed. "Okay, Cas, grab his hand, please." Cas took Dean's hand, not looking up from his shoes. "And...go."  
Cas cleared his throat. "If I do profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to—,"  
"Cas, lean in like you're gonna kiss him," Charlie directed.  
"To smooth that rough touch," Cas leaned in, close enough for their breath to mingle. "with a tender kiss."  
"Dean," Charlie said, motioning for him to turn his head.  
Dean turned his head away from Cas, also dropping his hand. "Good!" Charlie exclaimed. They were working based on instinct, now, and she let them, taking her hands off the figurative controller.  
"Good pilgrim," Dean protested, "you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch," he brushed Cas' fingers with his own, "and palm to palm," his palm met Cas' and they twined their fingers, eyes locked, "is holy palmers' kiss."  
Cas' eyes glinted. "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"  
"Ay, pilgrim," Dean smiled, glancing down at the book, "lips that they must use in prayer."  
"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do." Cas folded Dean's hands in his own, as if they were both praying, "They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."  
Dean chuckled and dropped his hands. "Saints do not move, though grant for prayer's sake."  
"Then move not," Cas murmured, placing his hands gently on either side of Dean's face, "while my prayer's effect I take." He inclined his head towards Dean, almost hesitantly. And while Charlie was in the middle of thinking, _How far is he gonna take this?_ Cas closed the inch between them and his lips met Dean's. The kiss was gentle but passionate, just as if they reallywere star-crossed lovers meeting for the first time. It was swift and tentative, and over in a few seconds. "Thus," Cas murmured huskily, "from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged."  
Dean stood, speechless, for a moment. He seemed unable to look down at his book for the next line. Charlie decided it was time to step in. She cleared her throat noisily, stepping forward to touch Dean's arm.  
"Thanks, Dean," she chirped, voice as cheery and unaffected as though nothing abnormal had just transpired. "But I've got it from here." Dean stepped back and Charlie took his place, intoning the next line. "Then have my lips the sin that they have took."  
Cas looked shell shocked, as if he was the sole survivor of a zombie attack. "Um," he groped for his next line, taking a few seconds before he could remember. "Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again." He leaned in to place a quick, dispassionate peck on Charlie's lips, and then turned away to collect his belongings.  
"That was good!" Charlie chattered, attempting to ease the tension that lay oppressively over the room. "But I think we should run it one more time on the day of the performance, don't you?"  
Charlie took his vague grunt as assent. She turned to talk to Dean, only to find that her best friend had slipped silently out of the room.

Charlie booted the kickstand of her yellow vespa into the down position, so the she could vacate the vehicle and it wouldn't fall over. However, as she demounted the ride, her leg got caught and _she_ fell over.  
She heard a scoff from somewhere above her. "Smooth move, Ginger Rogers," Dean said, producing a hand to help her up.  
"Shut up," she said, biffing him on the shoulder.  
"So how's things?" Dean asked as they walked into school together.  
"Well," Charlie said, taking stock, "I have my part for Ms. Harvelle's class down pat, I passed a test in science, I got out of PE with the 'girl problems' excuse, and I've got a date with a gorgeous girl this Sunday. Everything's coming up me!"  
Dean smiled at her, a close-lipped grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. Charlie grabbed his upper arm, steering him into a private corner between two sets of lockers and looking up at him concernedly. "You okay, dude?"  
"I, um," he said, looking as though he was wavering between divulging or not. "Yeah!" His pseudo-smile returned as he shrugged Charlie's hand off.  
Charlie's hands shot out and grabbed the lapels of his plaid shirt and pulled his face down so she could look him directly in the eyes. "Spill, Dean," she commanded, attempting to be serious for once.  
Dean shifted uncomfortably, and then, in a low voice, admitted, "I haven't talked to Cas."  
Charlie put hand over her face in embarrassment. "You haven't talked to Cas since you guys kissed? That was two days ago! Dick move, sir."  
"I know, I know," Dean said, nervously running his hand through his hair. "I just thought it'd be too weird, y'know? I mean, you sorta made us kiss, so it's not like we can really talk about our long-repressed passion for each other."  
"Dean—," Charlie began, but he cut her off.  
"Look, can we just go to class, please? We've got presentations today. Can we focus on that?"  
Charlie sighed reluctantly, but agreed.  
When they walked into Ms. Harvelle's class, Cas greeted them. "Hello, Charlie. Dean." Charlie responded in kind, but Dean just smiled tightly and glanced away. They took their seats as the first pair, Gilda and Lisa Braeden, got up to do their performance. Gilda winked at Charlie and she felt her heart balloon.  
Most of the performances whizzed by. Charlie and Cas did well, and she snuck him a high-five afterwards. Bela Talbot and Victor Henriksen had a particularly memorable performance that involved her accidentally punching him in the face as she made to pull away, resulting in a nosebleed and a trip to the Nurse's Office. Ms. Harvelle dealt with this in her customary brusque, no-nonsense fashion, and it only ended up causing a five-minute delay.  
Halfway through Dean and Benny's performance, a hilarious back-and-forth verbal sparring match about prostitutes, Charlie's attention was caught by Dean's phone, sticking out of the pocket of Dean's leather jacket, slung over the back of his desk chair. And suddenly an idea began to form. She reached forward as stealthily as possible, plucking the phone out of the jacket. Then, turning to Cas' desk, she nicked his English notebook. She placed both under her desk, smiling nefariously to herself. This was going to be fun.

It was only about a minute after class ended that Cas realized he'd lost his notebook. Apologizing to Charlie, he left her to go check Ms. Harvelle's classroom. Charlie had hidden it well, giving him a few good minutes of searching, just enough time to implement her brilliantly fiendish plan. She hung back, waiting for Dean and Benny.  
"Hey, Charlie," Dean greeted, as she fell into step beside them. Benny tipped his hat in acknowledgement. "So anyway," Dean said, turning back to Benny to continue their conversation, "like I was saying..." His hand fumbled in his pocket, groping for a phone that wasn't there. "Shit!" he exclaimed, in the middle of his sentence.  
"What's wrong?" Charlie asked innocently, eyes wide.  
"I lost my phone. I need to call Sammy to see when to pick him up." Dean carded his hand distressedly through his hair.  
"Maybe you left it in Ms. Harvelle's room," Charlie suggested.  
"Yeah," he said, turning that direction, "yeah, maybe I did."  
Benny's looking at her strangely. "What?" she asked defensively.  
"I should ask you the same thing, little miss ingénue," he drawled in his distinct southern accent.  
"Hey Benny, you wanna play matchmaker?" she asks, grinning conspiratorially at him.  
"You mean between those two idiots?" he asked, gesturing in the general direction of Dean and Cas. "Hell yes."  
They ran down the hall to Ms. Harvelle's classroom. Glancing through the little window, she could see that Dean and Cas were talking, but she knew they won't pour their hearts out to each other in the few moments they shared looking for lost possessions. She gestured to Benny to grab a nearby chair, putting a finger to her lips to request the stealthiest of ninjaness. Catching her drift, he placed the chair under the doorknob, being careful not to be visible through the window. He then gestured to her to move away from the door, so they could talk freely.  
"So, how are you doing, Benny?" Charlie asked, nonchalant, as though they had not just barricaded two people into a room. "We haven't talked in awhile."  
"Not so well, actually," Benny sighed. "It didn't really work out with Andrea."  
Charlie made an empathetic face, patting his back. "Girls suck, man."  
"Ain't it the truth," he chuckled.  
The doorknob started rattling behind them. They still had about ten minutes left of break, and Charlie intended to let Dean and Cas use it all. She smiled at Benny, who snickered.  
"You're an evil genius," he said, bowing his head in reverence.  
"Ain't it the truth," she returned.

Ten minutes later, Benny removed the chair, and he and Charlie resumed their oh-so-casual position against the lockers. Dean was the first to exit, smiling a private smile. Cas followed just behind, hair mussed and half of his collar sticking up. He gave Dean a long look before murmuring a quiet goodbye and moving off towards his next class.  
"Hey, Dean!" Charlie called, motioning him over. Dean seemed to be in a daze, and she had to call his name two more times before he joined her and Benny.  
"Just thought I'd give you this," she said brightly, holding out her copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. "You promised, remember?"  
"Yeah," he said distractedly, leafing through the pages.  
"So," she asked him, pressing her lips together to hide her smile, "how were things in there?"  
He looked up at her, and in his expression she could tell that he knew, and was grateful. Her work here was done. Then, glancing down at the first chapter of the book, Dean quoted, "'Perfectly normal, thank you very much.'"


End file.
